Dear Michael,
In the back of one of my notebooks, I keep a list of certain types of thoughts. Whenever one comes to me, I try to write it down. A few examples: that friend who commented that he enjoyed my writing more when he heard me read it aloud—that must mean the words on the page aren’t any good. The roommate from years ago who said I was untrustworthy and irresponsible… she was probably right given that to this day I still forget deadlines and prefer to leave bills unopened on the counter rather than pay them. My shoulders look scrawny when I wear this one sweater. I don’t reach out to my friends enough. I spend too much time talking to friends and not enough time working. Publishing so much of my psyche makes me look silly.
That’s not all I write down, though. If it were, well… how depressing.
What comes next is the effort part: underneath these notes of self doubt and critique, which can flow so effortlessly, sometimes without me even noticing, I jot down a counter-argument.
That person said nothing negative about reading my work, just that he particularly enjoyed hearing it. It’s true: I didn’t used to be so great about doing my dishes or paying rent on time, but I was still learning to manage those aspects of life, and look at how clean the kitchen has been this week (plus all the bills are up to date). Whatever judgment I place on my body is the product of years of societal indoctrination, so I give myself a little break there; that, and I note what wonderful functions my shoulders serve, from giving hugs to strumming strings to being part of the physical bridge that connect with you via pen and paper.
Before I continue with this letter, let me explain what’s going on here.
My friend Michael Namkung and I have a lot in common. Like me, Michael is a writer, a teacher, a meditator, and a man who’s interested in how we engage with our emotions and our truths— and where that engagement can take us.
Michael recently asked me if I’d be interested in exchanging letters—real ones, like with handwriting and stamps and envelopes—and sharing them with our readers. I love Michael and his work, so the “yes” was easy.
What you’ve read thus far, and what I continue with below, is my response to the first letter, which Michael sent to me:
That last bit brings me to your letter, and why I’m saying all this. When you wrote me, you shared thoughts on writing as a physical act—how you revere the power of making your interior world manifest as something that can be seen and touched. I love that term, “interior world,” and I agree that there’s an alchemy to moving it from that place out into the wider world, where you can step back and look at its form.
Relative to my list, where I catch myself slipping into negative self-talk and work to turn the tide by noting thoughts to the contrary, the act of writing gives me a vantage point that’s difficult to reach if everything stays up in my head. Putting it on paper makes it tangible, which makes it possible to address the matter. It makes it smaller— less enveloping, more discrete, something I can now hold in my hand and work with. From there, change.
That’s one place your letter took me. Another is related, but broader: creativity itself. It really hasn’t been that long—a year maybe, certainly not two—that I’ve thought of myself as a creative person, an artist. (Well, I’ll adjust that, actually: as a child, I drew and painted all the time, and I played the piano, too. Creativity was part of who I was for a long time… but for a long time after that, it wasn’t.)
These days, I’m returning to that self view, and it feels very good to be here. I used to view writing as a utilitarian act, mostly a tool for conveying a clear message. Essays with theses, work emails with specific asks, that kind of thing. Today it’s more about some kind of energy that’s inside of me, that wants to take shape, that is here to take me somewhere. Putting words down on paper is a way to play and explore, to see myself and that inner world with a softer lens and blurrier lines… and also a method for shaping my reality in a way that actually lines up with who I am and who I want to be. It’s where honesty meets volition.
It’s also where I practice faith, trust, and letting go. For example, I’m always looking for inspiration, sometimes obsessively. And when that spark comes, it’s exhilarating. A good idea, or even just the seed of one, can take over my whole mental world, and before I know it I can be sky-high in a cyclone of thought, wanting to spin the yarn just right, eager and impatient to see how the tapestry is going to look. But then I might hit a wall, or just as likely, it might be time for dinner. When I return, what do I do about that idea, especially if the invigoration is gone? I’ve found that the initial idea and its excitement is one thing, but returning to that seed and watering it, tending the soil, and waiting—drafting, trimming, and again, waiting—it can be hard to believe that yes, with devotion, the thing that’s wanting to take shape will do just that.
I’m excited to be exchanging letters too, and I really appreciate you both proposing the idea and being the first one to write. To speak to just one reader rather than an undefined mass can make it so much easier to actually say something, I think. When I worked as an editor at an engineering firm and a staff member was having trouble writing a proposal or a memo, I’d often ask them a few questions via email, and in our exchange they’d find that they had said what they needed/meant to say with great clarity; making it fit for a wider audience was just a matter of some light edits.
One thing I’m certainly looking forward to discussing is what you mentioned: that we are two men, each working with our relationships with our fathers, perhaps trying to find meaning in what’s there (that’s the case for me, and I’d hazard an assumption that it is for you, too). What is “meaning,” and how do you make use of it? How do you tell your story and have it mean something to you without becoming stuck in it? Without being the guy who goes around telling and re-telling his past, stuck there and not seeing his own inability to move forward? I have this hunch that for all the stock I put into storytelling, it’s only useful to the extent that it serves transcendence—that it aids me in becoming something new.
I’m struck by some of our differences in this area, too. You’re what, 15 years older than me? You have two children of your own, whereas I’m not a father yet. Your dad is still alive while mine has been gone for two years (in corporeal terms, anyway). Where have we walked similar paths, and how are we different? Where do you hope to go? Is it a place that looks similar to what I envision for myself?
Moving toward signing off, I’m thinking of everything I haven’t said yet. Within all these thoughts are a million little threads that, if tugged on, could beget sentences, paragraphs, letters of their own. You asked me what grade level I’ve been teaching writing at, and it’s 7th and 8th. Twice a week, I go and work with a group the teachers say need a little boost. One of the biggest things I’ve noticed is that believing you have something to say requires self-esteem. Another is a reminder of the value of saying something, even if you can’t say everything. There will always be more ink and paper.
Thanks again for offering this container, and for being a great collaborative partner. Us working together has already opened big doors for me, and I know we’re both heading somewhere great.
Blessings to the mail carriers, and all the other letters this one mixes with in the shuffle.
Much love,
Jonathan
P.S. Regarding that bit about the creative spark, and letting it take shape. A better way to say what I mean might be that any kind of thought, even the ones that light me up creatively, can pull me out of mindfulness. If it comes to me in a moment where stopping to write isn’t appropriate, can I let it go? To do so is to trust that if it’s important, it’ll be back. Not easy, but when it comes to mental weight and letting go, baggage is baggage.
If you enjoy my writing, please consider signing up for a paid subscription or dropping a tip via Venmo (@Jonathan-Neeley-2) or PayPal (neeley87@gmail.com). In more ways than one, your support helps make this whole thing happen.
I’m also hosting new writing groups starting in May. If you’re into creativity and connecting with other humans, check it out. I think you’ll enjoy it.
Happy Friday,
Jonathan
"One of the biggest things I’ve noticed is that believing you have something to say requires self-esteem. Another is a reminder of the value of saying something, even if you can’t say everything."
This. This is why I and others take Jonathan's class. It helps us in myriad ways, not the least of which is improving our self-esteem. Maybe some of us don't have an esteem problem, but usually, on some topic, we have at least a bit of insecurity or doubts. Writing it out is step one, hearing Jonathan's affirmation is step two in the healing mystery of writing. Above all, we learn that yes, there is value in saying something though we're not saying everything. Each word helps puzzle something out, if only subconsciously.
Thank you for allowing me in your sphere, Jonathan. Always inspired!!